


Deluge

by notjustmom



Series: Words, Words, Words [330]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternative Meeting, John is a delivery guy, Lots of rain, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-22
Updated: 2018-08-23
Packaged: 2019-07-01 05:35:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15767661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: deluge: noun: del-ˌyüj: an overflowing of land by water, a drenching rain; an overwhelming amount or numberMiddle English, from Anglo-French deluje, from Latin diluvium, from diluere to wash away, from dis- + lavere to wash





	1. Chapter 1

As he stood at the window, watching the wind and rain batter those unlucky enough to be stuck in the deluge, he thought back to the night he met John. 

 

It had been raining for three days straight, but it felt like weeks, especially after the dripping in his bedroom began. Not that it mattered that much, as he rarely slept, but the constant 

drip  
drip  
drip  
driiiiipp

of the rain hitting the pot was finally enough to drive him from his flat, into the storm and after a long walk against the wind, to Bart's morgue. He had no case on at the moment, no samples to examine, and he felt the itch of boredom beginning to encroach. Molly rolled her eyes and pushed a mug of coffee into his shivering hands.

"What, even you couldn't get a cab today?" 

"On strike."

Molly snorted as she pulled on a pair of gloves and examined him closely. "What?"

"Nothing."

"Sherlock."

"Just bored."

"No cold cases?"

"Nothing worth my time."

"Well, give me a day or two and I might have something for you."

"Right." Sherlock finished his coffee and carefully placed his mug in the sink, pulled up his collar and walked out of the morgue and back into the rain.

 

Drip  
Drip  
Driiiippp

"Yeah, lemme have my regular? How long? An hour? New guy, hmm? What happened to Hughie? Finally got busted? I kept warning him. Yes, the rain is something." He went back to rereading an old forensics journal as he waited for his take away order, nearly falling asleep, but startling awake when he heard a tap at the door. 

"Delivery, c'mon, I don't have all night, you're not the only customer I have tonight, even in this rain - people can't be bothered to cook anymore."

"If people 'bothered to cook' you would be -" Sherlock's words shuddered to a halt when he saw a well-built man in motorcycle gear holding a white plastic bag, which was somehow still dry, when he handed it to Sherlock.

"I would be what, exactly? The boss said there was no charge fer some reason."

"I, uhm, wait a minute -" Sherlock shoved his hand in his pocket and pulled out a few notes. "Here, I, hmm, apologise, for the inconvenience."

"Ta." He removed his helmet then swore as water ran onto the floor, leaving a puddle. "Bloody hell, sorry - listen, you were my only delivery today, I'm guessing because of the rain, and it's only my third day, been on my bike too much, amazing I haven't had an accident with the arseholes on the road, you'd think Londoners would drive better in the rain, but... I really needed the tip, so thank you - I was just grumbling - you okay, mate?"

Sherlock found himself speechless at the man's monologue, but somehow recovered enough to nod. "Yes, uhm, fine. Perfectly -" He gazed into the deepest, darkest, bluest eyes he had ever seen and lost his train of thought.

"Right. Good. Well, I don't want anyone to swipe my bike, best be going." He put his helmet on again and gave Sherlock an apologetic look for the growing puddle he was leaving behind him.

"Wait - what's your name and what time does your shift end?"

"What?"

Sherlock lifted the visor and spoke quietly, but clearly. "What is your name, and when does your shift end?"

"John Watson, and I just quit." 

 

"Hey, I'm home - damn, it's pouring buckets out there, my last three patients didn't show, they didn't bother calling, just didn't show up, otherwise I would have been home sooner. Got you some dumplings, she's finally forgiven me for quitting... Hey. Hello????" John walked over to where Sherlock stood at the window and wrapped his arms around him. "Where are you?"

"I was just remembering the night we met. It was raining, and you -"

"showed up with your order of dumplings, and my life has never been the same."

"I sometimes wonder..."

"Hmmm?"

"if we hadn't met that night..."

"We would have met some other time, some other place."

"You believe that?" Sherlock turned in John's arms and looked down into his eyes.

"Yeah, I do. It was inevitable."

"You believe in fate?"

"Fate? Hmm... I don't know about fate, but I know I was always meant to meet you. Hungry?"

"Starving."


	2. Chapter 2

He never thought he could get tired of London rain after his years in the sand of Afghanistan, but the last three days had been ridiculous.

 

He was a surgeon, a doctor, a captain - had been, and now? Now he was delivering Chinese take away on the one precious thing he had left, the motorcycle he had spent years restoring with his dad, and somehow Harry had managed to keep it safe for him. He wasn't sure what he would find when he finally returned home after months of rehab, but Harry was sober, and still married by some miracle; he spent a moment wondering why she had found someone who would put up with all the Watson baggage while he was still not only unmarried, but hadn't been in a serious, committed relationship since, well, since forever. 

Tonight his solitary delivery was a couple orders of dumplings, and the owner informed him lightly as he was walking out the door that they were on the house, and don't expect much of a tip from Mr. Holmes, but hurry, he does rather like them hot. He was about to ask why the dumplings were free, but she had handed him his helmet and gave him a friendly nudge out into the rain. 

He swore as he threw open the door to 221B Baker Street and saw the stairs he had to climb since no one had bothered to answer the buzzer. His leg had healed almost completely, but stairs were still troublesome, and he decided at that moment that he would quit tonight and start looking for GP jobs, even locum hours, had to be better than this. He was dreaming of snotty nosed kids, whingeing teens whose parents didn't understand them when he was suddenly at the door.

"Delivery, c'mon, I don't have all night, you're not the only customer I have tonight, even in this rain - people can't be bothered to cook anymore." Of course he was lying, he had no other deliveries to make, but the man on the other side of the door didn't know that -

"If people 'bothered to cook' you would be -"

Oh. Damn. In front of him stood the most beautiful man he had ever seen in his life. Dark curls, green iridescent eyes, ridiculously plush lips, and that voice - hell. Words. You do know how to speak. Speak. 

"I would be what, exactly? The boss said there was no charge fer some reason." 

He tried to focus on the skull - yes, that was a skull on the mantelpiece, but his eyes kept drifting back to the brightest, most intelligent eyes he had ever seen. The man pushed a few notes into his hand and he lost track of where he was as he lifted the helmet off his head. He wasn't even sure why he took it off, he wasn't staying, he would be heading back into the rain, damn. He was dripping all over the floor, leaving a huge puddle as he stood there. 

"Bloody hell, sorry - listen, you were my only delivery today, I'm guessing because of the rain, and it's only my third day, been on my bike too much, amazing I haven't had an accident with the arseholes on the road, you'd think Londoners would drive better in the rain, but... I really needed the tip, so thank you - I was just grumbling - you okay, mate?" Shut up, just stop talking, put the helmet back on, and go back down the stairs before you embarrass yourself more than you already have. 

"Right. Good. Well, I don't want anyone to swipe my bike, best be going." Just put the helmet back on, go back down the stairs, get on your bike...

But the Voice spoke again. "Wait - what's your name and what time does your shift end?"

No possible way. "What?"

He shivered as the man carefully lifted his visor and looked into his eyes. "What is your name, and when does your shift end?"

"John Watson, and I just quit."

 

It was pouring again. He'd seen ten patients, all miserable, and the last three didn't bother showing up. He could have been home three hours ago, but he did his job, stayed until the office hours were over, turned off the lights and locked up. He didn't bother opening his umbrella as the wind made it unusable, and made his way to the Chinese restaurant for their usual Tuesday night order. The owner nodded at him, asked after Sherlock and finally offered him a smile, it had been six months since he had quit, and he smiled back at her, knowing it was the regular orders, more than anything that made her forgive him at last. He pulled up his collar and walked back into the storm. He walked the two blocks to Baker Street and stopped briefly to look across the street and spotted Sherlock standing at the window. He rarely had time to look at him without Sherlock turning away and grumbling at him, and he wondered once again that the man who stood there was his, even from here, he felt his heart flip as he thought of how lucky - no. From the day he had met Sherlock, he knew it wasn't luck that had brought him to Baker Street.

John dropped the take away on the kitchen table and called out, "hey, I'm home - damn, it's pouring buckets out there, my last three patients didn't show, they didn't bother calling, just didn't show up, otherwise I would have been home sooner. Got you some dumplings, she's finally forgiven me for quitting... Hey. Hello????" He walked over to where Sherlock stood at the window and wrapped his arms around him. "Where are you?"

"I was just remembering the night we met. It was raining, and you -"

John pressed himself against Sherlock's back and closed his eyes. "showed up with your order of dumplings, and my life has never been the same." He felt Sherlock sigh heavily and he held him tighter until Sherlock leaned back into him, finally letting go of the breath he had been holding.

"I sometimes wonder..."

"Hmmm?"

"If we hadn't met that night..."

John placed a kiss between Sherlock's shoulder blades and he whispered, "we would have met some other time, some other place."

"You believe that?" Sherlock turned and John gasped quietly as he saw the look in his eyes.

"Yeah, I do. It was inevitable."

Sherlock was silent for a moment, then asked him quietly, "you believe in fate, John?"

"Fate. I don't know about fate, but I know, more than I know anything else, that I was always meant to meet you." And fall desperately, ridiculously in love with you went unsaid, but Sherlock understood the subtext, always just under the surface, in his eyes and in the way he touched him. "Hungry?"

"Starving."


End file.
